


Calls Every One Home

by Lise



Category: Silmarillion
Genre: Character Death, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise





	Calls Every One Home

It was coming to an end.

He could pretend that he didn't know that. But it would change nothing. He had sent his squires away to ready themselves and was just now fitting the last pieces of armor to himself, clasping the greaves over his forearms, looking at the full length mirror perfect reflection of himself as he let his arms fall. The Nauglamir glittered around his neck.

Dior the Beautiful. Dior the Foolish. Should he have given it back while there was still time? What would he have lost?

What would he have gained?

He turned, taking his helmet under his arm, and crossed the room to the door to the nursery. Nimloth looked up from where she was soothing the boys, though her expression was grave. He would not have to explain to her what they faced today.

"Ata?"

They were just learning to speak, or barely, and it had been their first word. But if this was the end, at least he could be sure of them. "I'm here," he murmured, but turned to the full size bed, focusing his attention. "Elwing?"

"Yes," she said, bright eyed girl that she was, alert and with all her grandmother's legendary beauty. Dior hoped she did not understand the why of what was happening tonight.

"You will…" He swallowed, and sat down next to her, so he could put his arm around her shoulders. "You will hear much noise, tonight, shouting. You are not to move, to stay here, until it is quieter. Then you will take your brothers and sneak out very quietly, all right? You must be seen by no one. Go to the sea, the Grey Havens, and stay there."

"And you and mother?" She frowned, with such childish and endearing concern that his heart ached.

"We will meet you again," he said, softly, and hoped it would not be a lie. Someday. A moment longer of hesitation, and he lifted the Nauglamir over his head and laid it around her neck. "Here, love. Keep this with you. It will light your way."

Elwing looked up at him, wide eyed in sudden distress. "But," she began, but then looked over at where Elured and Elurin were watching her with wide blue eyes, and fell silent. _Clever girl, _Dior thought sadly, and smoothed her hair back to kiss her forehead before turning to Nimloth.

"You will stay safe in here-?"

"No. I will stand." She stood, and he remembered the fire in her eyes on their wedding day, her pride and spirit, and bowed his head.

"Very well. You will take a weapon, and armor…"

"I will stand here," she said, softly, and reached out to touch his face. "A last stronghold against any who would touch our children." There was not enough time left to argue, and he merely kissed her. He could hear the horns sounding, now.

"I love you," he said, softly enough that only she could hear, and turned and left swiftly, before he could delay any longer. His neck felt bare and he almost wished he had not left the necklace with its Silmaril with Elwing; it would have given him strength, he felt, would have given him power.

Even without it, Dior's stride was steady, assured, powerful, donning his helmet as he walked. Soon, the combined forces of Fëanor's sons would break through the meager defenses they had had time to put in place. Soon, blood and the screams of the dying would fill these, the hallways of his beloved palace, home for all his life, soon to be home to his death.

It would not take him without a fight. He would pay for blood in blood, for sword with sword, and above all be certain that his children should make it out of this alive.

He heard the doors begin to shake and drew his sword. If they thought to frighten him, they would see that their people were not the only ones without fear. "_Doriath!_" he cried, and their voices shook the ceiling.

**

If he had so wished, he could have bathed in blood.

Celegorm bared his teeth in frustration as his sword caught in the spine of his opponent, costing him precious moments. He kicked the elf free and whirled to take the next.

They ceased to have faces, ceased to be anything but limbs and heads and bellies, sacks of blood. He was glad that the stuff under his feet was drying – he'd seen too many men slip on blood slicked floors to fall onto a blade that they could have avoided, or else onto their own. There was no time for the wounded.

Because he was considering it, he took a moment to look the man he'd just run through in the face. He was young, or fairly, perhaps a little younger than Celebrimbor, and looked shocked.

Celegorm shook him off the sword and cut down the elf behind him. Over his head as he fell saw a flash of bright blue eyes that jarred him into stillness.

_She lowered her eyes, but even the moment in which he saw them was enough for him to recognize them. "My lord, if I may have shelter, just for the night… any charity you offer would be welcome." _

_He had laughed, back when he still laughed. "I know nothing of charity, fair lady. But you may stay for as long as you like." _

It was only chance that guided him to move so that the cut only scored a deep slash down his shoulder rather than taking his sword arm off. He turned with a snarl of pure and vicious anger, sword cleaving through the unfortunate's neck at one stroke. He did bathe in blood, for a moment, warmth squirting on his face, creeping under the light leather that served well enough for armor. He pressed his hand against his face and brought it away stained red, and roared his challenge across the hall.

He would cut his way through every body in the hall to reach him, this petty king who thought to deny the sons of Fëanor. He would see the light leave Dior's eyes, and never again, never again hear the voice of the woman he'd thought he had loved.

**

The clash of swords and cries of the wounded filled his ears, and Dior fought on, each warrior he killed another that his children would not have to evade, another that would never reach and kill his wife.

Over them all, he still heard his name.

He'd been looking, watching for one of the Princes, and thought he had glimpsed a redhead that was not one of his own, but only briefly. This one, though, turning, looked as he had always thought the sons of Fëanor should look. His face and arms were stained with blood and gore, his mouth a sneering, arrogant snarl, eyes a pitiless and metal cold grey. He moved like the sword was part of him, just an extension of an arm.

Dior turned and faced him, knowing that his eyes were alight with hatred. "Kinslayer," he snarled, and was surprised when the smile flickered like a ghost on his enemy's lips.

"No," he corrected, in a voice that was surprisingly quiet for belonging to the same one that had unleashed that bellowing cry, "Celegorm." Dior knew the name. It might as well have been one of the frightening stories he could have told his children.

"You know my name," Dior said, lifting his head, remembering all he had to be proud of. "I will not give you the courtesy of an introduction."

They came together in a clash of steel. Pressed body to body with an opponent who had been using the sword longer than he had been alive, Dior felt the first twinge of fear.

But there were some things worth dying for. He though of his sons, of Elwing and the necklace this man would no doubt take her head to steal, and slid his sword downwards along the locked blades. It plunged into flesh just above the hip bone, but Dior was surprised as with nothing more than a grunt, a flick of Celegorm's sword tore the blade out of his own flesh. It should have at least given him pause. He was already moving into the next form.

He took a breath and dodged backward, swearing his own small oath that he would not die until he brought this monster down with him.

**

He was not bleeding badly, and that made it unimportant. He shook it off with little more than a thought.

Dior's eyes, Celegorm thought, could have been the eyes of his own son. Dior might have been his own son. Blue eyes, black hair, too slight of stature, but all the same… if he had ever married, his son might have looked like this.

But of course, he had no son, would never have a son. That he knew, if nothing else.

He backed off when Dior did, circling him warily. If nothing else, he might be a fair swordsman. That did not make up for being a thief and a fool. And, if he was honest, the deeper crime of being _her _son. If she had not fled, if she had not taken Huan, if…but as Curufin said, he could if himself to death and still be where he'd begun.

Celegorm darted back, locking blades again and pressing the advantage of his height and strength. Dior's eyes blazed with hatred. "Kinslayer," he hissed, "Murderer." The words meant nothing to him anymore, though he knew they were meant to sting. He shrugged them off and broke the lock of their blades, stepping back again.

"Are you overproud or just stupid, to bring this upon yourself," he murmured, and caught the falling stroke toward his shoulder, though he was surprised when it slipped and cut the underside of his arm. Annoyed, he snarled and lashed out in return, satisfied with the sound of pain and the feeling of metal impacting flesh, even if it was only a gash.

They broke apart again, circling like wolves, as though there was no one but them. Celegorm could have laughed, He wanted to. _No matter what happens, _he thought, queerly, _it is over now. _

He moved again, to kill, to die; perhaps it was the same thing.

**

If he stalled long enough, an archer would shoot Celegorm through the back and end it that way, or else others of his men – they were still alive, weren't they? - would take his life. Either way, Celegorm ended dead. All the same, Dior could feel the beginning touches of despair.

And if he did kill this one elf, what then? There were still too many. They would still be massacred. He could feel himself weakening and slowing as the blood pumped out of the gash in his arm that had nearly left it useless. Everyone around them, killing, fighting, dying, all he could smell was blood, and one way or another, he had to finish this. He thought of the young boys looking at him with wide blue eyes. Thought of them screaming, struggling, lives ended in one blow of a sword. Thought of his mother and father, and knew what he wanted to say.

"They should have killed you," he snarled, "That mercy was their one mistake."

For the first time, Celegorm looked surprised, and he would have pounced on the opportunity but for a great roar that went up, turning both their heads at once. Dior's mouth opened in horror as a Noldo flung down a limp body, yelling something he could not make out. He knew the dress, though, the hair, even imagined he could see the face behind the sheet of blood.

_No, _he wanted to roar, and spun to stab at Celegorm before he recovered. _A last barrier, _she had said…_what about the boys? Eru, what about the _boys? He could almost hear Elwing screaming, was becoming slowly aware of the shock of Nimloth's death.

He had known there would be death; he had not expect it to hurt so much.

Dior lunged forward, heedless, needing to reach his children before anyone found them, before they were killed, seeing only a body between him and his beautiful children, and he would never see them grow…

It was chance; blind, stupid chance. Celegorm dodged back to avoid the thrusting sword, and one foot landed in a still wet puddle of blood.

A fair opponent would have waited for him to recover. Dior was tired of being fair, if he ever had been; if he had ever been anything but a proud and selfish fool. Dior lunged as his enemy's attention switched to catching his slipping balance, and drove his sword into Celegorm's gut.

He imagined he felt the rush of energy up his sword arm, or perhaps it was simply exhilaration in his triumph. There was a moment of utter stillness as everything stopped moving, and Dior ground the blade deeper, savagely, widening the wound, letting the momentum of his own lunge carry the weapon through his enemy's body. The sword fell from his hand with a clatter of metal.

"Done, and done," he said, almost gasping, surprised. Did that mean it was over? He was more surprised when two powerful hands closed over his own, surprisingly warm, and when he looked up Celegorm was simply staring at him, unmoving, nearly immobile. He looked, suddenly, exhausted.

**

All dead men looked the same, and anyone could die. The two rules of battle Celegorm had learned the best. It didn't matter how good you were, or how strong you were, all it took was one wrong move and you were just the same as every other dead man had ever been.

He could feel every miniscule twitch of the blade, and even more so when the whole thing twisted, and wondered how long he would last before simply buckling to his knees. He tightened his hands over Dior's and fixed his gaze on his eyes, searching for something in them, though he himself could not have said what it was.

Celegorm wondered why he had never thought how long it took to die. The moments seemed measured in heartbeats, one, then another, then another. There was nothing around Dior's neck. Nothing; that was all they had come here for, all he was dying for. _You might have been my son, _he thought, and his body shuddered, now out of his control. _You might have been my son. _She said once, he wanted to say, that if I were not already given to another, if she had not already made her choice, I might not be so abhorrent to her.

He didn't try to make the words. The pain finally began to hit him, after 29 heartbeats. He had counted every one.

**

Dior watched his eyes. They blinked twice, barely widening as his head fell back and his knees began to buckle. The blade jerked in Dior's hands with the movement of his body, and Celegorm's hand was still locked around his wrist, dragging him down with surprising strength. His grip tightened instead of loosening, eyes telling nothing, opaque and full of emptiness.

Celegorm's throat worked, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something, grip surprisingly strong for all that he was undeniably dying. Dior couldn't help it, leaning down, forward, half expecting – something, an apology, an explanation, last words that someone had to hear. Compassion stirred, misplaced and unwanted, but he did not fight it off. He could afford mercy now.

"Damn…you," Celegorm said, and stuck a knife between Dior's ribs, just behind the breastplate, and released his wrist.

Dior felt the pain a moment later, a moment late, and jerked away, but his lung was collapsing, and he would drown in blood. The last thing he could hear was the sound of his mortal enemy's pained and dying breathing, and he wished the bastard a long and painful death.

At least he would see Nimloth again.

**

He listened to Dior die, laboring for air. He could have told him the secrets he knew now, the secret – that nothing really mattered – but he couldn't let him live. It would have been the merciful thing to do, perhaps, the right thing to do.

But why would he ever do that?

He rested a hand over the gaping wound in his stomach, hating this waiting, hating each breath that forced its way into his lungs. But there was no giving up for a Son of Fëanor. Even if he took days, a week to die, he would spend every moment before that mercilessly alive.

Yes, Celegorm knew now that there were worse things than death. It had been too long; he had lived too long.

He heard Dior stop breathing and turned his head, turned his body, holding the edges of the gash together with his fingers. The other elf had died with his eyes open, and hardly bled at all, except from his mouth and there only a messy trickle. He looked beautiful, dead: honorable, proud, dignified.

He stretched out his arms and let the wound fall open, biting back on the cry of agony that wanted to escape. He pulled the dead body to his chest, cradling Dior in his arms as he would never hold his own son. He closed his eyes and let his head fall to the floor, cheek pressed to a sticky-warm puddle of blood, and let the sound of the roaring waves in his ears rock him gently into sleep.

**


End file.
